


like a punnett square, but with more kissing

by patho (ghostsoldier)



Category: Dishonored (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Canon, Headcanon, Low Chaos, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2016-02-16
Packaged: 2017-11-23 07:24:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/619565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostsoldier/pseuds/patho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ten ficlets, ten possible relationships.</p><p>Or: non-canon stories pairing the five main characters in <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/601800">'what we talk about when we talk about whalers'</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. disturbing metaphors about figs

**Author's Note:**

> Iteration the First: Jenkins/Eli

They’re both on dish duty tonight: Eli because he’d volunteered, and Jenkins because Rulfio did a surprise audit of their weapons and discovered that he had two fewer bolts of sleeping poison than he’d been allotted. When asked to account for himself, all Jenkins said was, “Collateral casualties are one thing, kids are another,” and it seemed that even Rulfio felt uncomfortable about bringing that one to Daud’s attention. He’d given Jenkins dish duty and the 0300 upper ramp lookout slot for the next week, and they all quietly agreed that the incident would never come to their boss’s attention.

Eli feels a little bad for enjoying Jenkins’s punishment. Not that he _wants_ him to be punished or anything. But he likes Jenkins, maybe a little more than he should, and Jenkins has a habit of singing to himself when he’s doing stuff he thinks is boring and he—

He’s got a really nice voice.

Currently, Jenkins is singing quietly while he dries dishes with a rag. Eli recognizes the song — it’s the one about the Serkonan goat girl who falls in love with a Tyvian prince and dies for her trouble. It’s all very beautiful and tragic, and Eli starts humming the counterpoint melody before he can talk himself out of it. It’s meant to be a duet anyway, soaring soprano for the goat girl and a deep bass rumble for her Tyvian lover, but Jenkins is singing the prince’s line in a bright, clear tenor and so Eli just shrugs and adapts as best he can. He supposes there are weirder things in the world than a baritone goat girl.

At some point, elbows deep in sudsy water, he stops humming the melody and starts singing the actual words instead. Jenkins had given up on being quiet a while ago, and by the time he adds his own voice properly to the song Eli doesn’t doubt that the others can hear them. It will make for mockery fodder later, he’s sure: being the youngest and the newest he gets it enough as is, and singing the woman’s part in a tragic love duet certainly isn’t going to help.

But when he half-turns to hand Jenkins the next dish for drying, Jenkins catches his eye and his smile is so wide and pleased that Eli flushes red to the tips of his ears.

In the next part of the song, the Serkonan girl and the Tyvian prince make love beneath a fig tree on a cliff overlooking the ocean, and Eli _very carefully_ doesn’t make eye contact as he sings about blood and ripe figs and the salt smell of the sea and…wow this song is a _lot_ more suggestive than he remembers. He’s pretty sure most of this went over his head when he was a kid, because the things they’re singing about figs right now _really aren’t about figs_.

Also, for a guy who’s just drying dishes Jenkins has gotten up close and friendly with Eli’s personal space.

They make it through the suggestive (i.e. much dirtier than he remembers) parts of the song and move on to the more tragic bits, and Eli is honestly sad that they’re just about done with the dishes because he doesn’t really want this to end. This isn’t the kind of thing you plan. These moments happen spontaneously or not at all, and since it’s unlikely to ever happen again he figures he may as well go for it and puts everything he has into the final few verses. The goat girl’s heartache, her anger, her betrayal. With his deeper voice it should be strange, but instead it brings out something different in the melody. When the Serkonan girl throws herself off the cliff, his voice turns it less into an act of despair than one of defiance.

The Tyvian prince, usually so rough and uncaring at this point in the song, is transformed by Jenkins’s strong, vibrant tones into something heartbreakingly young and terribly bewildered. He sings about the dying fig tree and Eli sings about the sea foaming blood on the rocks, and he’s not even paying attention to the dishes anymore, not really. They’re racing towards the finish of the song and all he can think about is the thrum of his own heartbeat and Jenkins’s bright, bright blue eyes, and then they hit the final notes and they _hold_ them, brilliant and clear and perfect—

And then Jenkins hauls him down by his shoulders and kisses him right on the mouth, and Eli stops singing and says, “ _Mrph_!”

“Sorry,” Jenkins says, not sounding sorry at all. His mustache had tickled and his cheeks are bright red, and Eli desperately wants him to do it again. “I decided to make it one of those songs where the lovers kiss at the end.”

And instead of saying something appropriately clever or sexy, all Eli can do is blurt, “But she _dies_ at the end,” and he wants to drown himself in the dish tub the second it comes out of his mouth.

“Huh,” Jenkins says. Some of the brilliance is fading from his eyes and this is _awful_ , this isn’t what Eli wanted at all, _why does he fail at everything_. “I guess you’ve got a point.”

“No,” Eli says quickly, despairing over his own inability to do anything right, “no, that’s not what I meant,” and because Jenkins still doesn’t look convinced Eli grabs him with hands that are still dripping with soapsuds and kisses him back, properly this time. Jenkins makes a pleased noise and his mouth goes soft and wet under Eli’s, fingers skimming the smooth curve of Eli’s skull, and it would be completely and utterly perfect if not for someone clearing their throat at the other end of the kitchen and saying, “If you’re _quite_ done with the dishes already…”

The voice is rough, and deadpan, and horrifyingly familiar. Eli and Jenkins quickly lurch in opposite directions and nearly upset the dish tub. He suspects they’re wearing matching expressions of sheer mortal terror.

Daud sighs. “And this is why I don’t like coming into the kitchens. Is there coffee yet or not?”

Eli manages to unstick his throat enough to say, “Reynolds just brought a fresh pot out to the common room, sir,” and cringes when Daud looks terribly annoyed that the coffee is farther away than he’d anticipated.

“Fine,” Daud says gruffly, “carry on with the dishes, then,” and Eli has just started to relax when Daud suddenly adds, “Oh, and one more thing.”

Eli ducks his head. He can’t look at Jenkins, and he can’t look at Daud, and it feels like his stomach is full of rocks because he _knows_ what Daud is going to say and it makes him want to winch into a little ball and never uncurl again—

“This is a base of operations,” Daud says, “not an opera house. If you have to sing, do it _quietly_.”

And with that he’s gone and Jenkins is sagging next to him, bracing himself on the table behind them. Eli’s clinging so hard to the table edge that his knuckles hurt.

“Did he really just—“ Jenkins says.

“I think so,” Eli says, and then they’re laughing, giddy and perhaps a little hysterical, and after that it makes sense to kiss some more because, hey – they just survived a near-death experience. That’s definitely something worth celebrating.


	2. skiagraphia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Iteration the Second: Reynolds/Jenkins

Reynolds isn’t handsome.

He’s got weird teeth, and he’s missing a finger, and his hair is gray and his face is too long and he never fucking smiles, and basically there’s no reason at all for Jenkins to fill page after page of his sketchbook with drawings of the guy.

Go figure, right? They’ve got people like Tyros and Eli hanging around, and yet Reynolds is the one Jenkins gets hung up on. Story of his fucking life.

He mostly uses charcoal these days since Daud prefers they don’t waste ink; he uses paint if he can find it, but mostly it’s charcoal, deep blacks and smudgy grays, perfect for capturing Reynolds’s quiet, still menace.

He’s sitting in the window right now, Reynolds is, cigarette smoke curling around him in an eerie corona backlit by the few streetlamps still burning in the district. He’s been smoking like a chimney since he got his cigarette privileges back, and Jenkins wets a little twist of paper with his tongue and uses it to carefully lift lines of white and light gray from the drawing, trying to capture the precise swirl of the smoke. Once he has it right, he switches back to the charcoal stick, sketches lines here and there to describe the slope of Reynolds’s neck, his hooded eyes, his long fingers—

When he glances up to make sure he’s accurately captured Reynolds’s loose, easy slouch, the other man isn’t there.

Jenkins frowns. Weird.

The only warning he gets is a familiar hum in the air next to him, and then Reynolds is _right there_ , cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth as he leans down to easily pluck the sketchbook from Jenkins’s grasp. Charcoal sticks spill to the warped floorboards and roll away underfoot.

“’Bout time I get to see what you’re always scribbling in here,” Reynolds says.

Jenkins squawks and makes a grab for the sketchbook, and very seriously considers judicious application of deadly force when Reynolds just moves back a few steps and holds the book over his head, well out of Jenkins’s reach. He’s not going to give Reynolds the satisfaction of watching him jump for it like a little kid, but the idea of him actually looking through the sketchbook is almost as bad and maybe it’s the sudden surge of horror that accompanies the thought that leads him to plead with uncharacteristic honesty: “ _Don’t_. I’d really – I’d rather you didn’t.”

He shouldn’t have said anything. If he’d laughed it off or gotten angry, Reynolds might’ve taunted him a while longer just to make a point, but then he would’ve gone off to do something more interesting. Like, say, shoot hagfish. But because Jenkins reacted, and because he’d reacted the way he did…

Reynolds’s expression sharpens. A little helplessly, Jenkins thinks it’s the sort of thing he’d love to capture on paper.

“You don’t want me to look, huh?” Reynolds takes one last drag of his cigarette before he pinches it out and tucks the remains away into one of his many pouches for later. He’s elevated the art of rolling his own cigarettes to an art form. “What’s the problem, Jenkins? You embarrassed about doodling nudie pictures all damn day?”

 _I wish_ , is what Jenkins doesn’t say. He’s not sure how to answer. If he denies it, then Reynolds will want to know what’s making him so uncomfortable; if he admits it, then Reynolds will want to look. No matter which way he goes, it ends with the book open and everything exposed.

It’s not fair. Everyone else has stupid hobbies they pursue during their scant down time. Why can’t the bastard just let him draw in peace?

Reynolds is waiting for him to reply, eyebrows climbing higher the longer Jenkins remains silent. “Huh,” he says at last. Looks thoughtfully at the battered, water-stained black book in his hands, jerks it out of reach when Jenkins moves to snatch it back again. “You really don’t want me looking in here.”

 _I would rather be eaten alive by rats_ , Jenkins doesn’t say. _I would rather strip naked and go skipping through Holger Square_ , Jenkins doesn’t say. _I would rather hug the boss and tell him how pretty he looks_ , Jenkins doesn’t say. What he says is, “I really couldn’t care less,” and there’s a nervous crack in his voice that instantly labels him a liar and he can’t _stand_ how Reynolds’s faintly crooked smirk makes his fingers itch.

“Don’t know why you’re so fidgety about it,” Reynolds says. Flips back the sketchbook cover as Jenkins’s stomach plummets. “If you’ve got half a bit of talent you could probably make yourself some coin drawing girlie pictures for the lads,” and then he gets a few pages in and his voice trails off, and Jenkins has never wanted to sink into the floorboards and _die_ more than he does right at that moment.

When he got shot in the shoulder that first year he joined up, even that wasn’t as bad as the way Reynolds’s expression has faded into something quiet and intense and watchful.

There are pages.

Pages upon _pages_ of drawings. He’s filled almost the entire book. Just last week, he was musing that it was about time to steal another one.

And it’s not just Reynolds, because Jenkins tends to doodle whatever he thinks is interesting and most of the Whalers are there in the warped, wrinkled pages. Tyros chopping vegetables in the kitchen, Smith and Eli roughhousing with the hounds, Rulfio showing one of the new recruits how to restring a crossbow. Daud in his office, looking drawn and tired and sad. Once, Jenkins spent a day fascinated by the play of murky sunlight on the waters below their window, and he tried to capture its particular qualities in charcoals and inks and paint. There are several pages of rats, Smith’s hounds, his own hands. Weaponry. Food.

It’s not just Reynolds.

But…it’s mostly Reynolds.

Bold, loose scrawls of charcoal to describe Reynolds at rest, smaller, tighter lines and crosshatching to capture the coiled tension of him in uniform. There are five pages towards the middle of the book filled with nothing but sketches of Reynolds’s hands; Jenkins had obsessed over the stub of his fourth finger, his knobby knuckles, his many and varied scars, his calluses. After drawing them so many times, he knows Reynolds’s hands better than he knows his own.

He’d obsessed similarly over the man’s mouth: the gap between his two front teeth, his rare and crooked smiles. The precise arch of his eyebrows. The patchwork map of scars over the long length of his back. The elegant lines of him in motion: fighting, and running, twisting like a cat in midair, lunging. It’s…

Well, looking at it like this, it’s actually really fucking creepy.

He should probably be explaining himself right about now, since Reynolds is almost to the end of the book and he hasn’t said a word this whole time. The problem is, Jenkins has no idea how to explain. How do you tell a guy that you've known for over five years that you’re kinda sorta perhaps a little preoccupied with him, and that maybe all the bantering and good-natured harassment over the years was your stupid way of flirting? Or that the sketchbook he’s holding in his hands is probably the longest love letter you’ve ever written anyone?

Sweet unholy tentacles of the Outsider, he’s drawn Reynolds _naked_ on more than one occasion. How in the fuck is he supposed to explain that?

Reynolds reaches the end of the sketchbook. Shuts it. Drums his fingers against the cover. Looks at Jenkins, _finally_ , with the most flat and inscrutable expression Jenkins has ever seen.

“Well,” he says, “guess that explains why you didn’t want me looking at it.”

Jenkins swallows. His mouth feels like what he’s always imagined Serkonos to be like, sucked utterly dry of moisture; he doesn’t _think_ Reynolds would stab him over this, but it’s entirely possible they won’t be friends anymore, and in a way…that’s worse. Violence he can handle. The thought of Reynolds avoiding him makes his stomach shrivel.

Bizarrely – impossibly – the corner of Reynolds’s mouth tilts up.

“Never thought I’d see the day when _you_ didn’t have a comment for something,” he says.

 _Wonderful_ , Jenkins thinks. Reynolds has decided to forgo anger in favor of outright mocking. That doesn’t make this whole thing worse at all.

“Oh, fuck you,” Jenkins mutters. Savagely grinds one of the charcoal sticks into the floorboards with the heel of his boot until it splinters into shards of black dust. “I guess asking you not to be an ass about it is out of the question?”

Instead of answering, Reynolds just holds the sketchbook out. This is surprising. Less surprising is the fact that he doesn’t let go of it immediately. Exasperated and more than a little humiliated, all Jenkins can think of to say is, “Ugh, really?”

Staring Reynolds down is like trying to have a staring contest with one of Smith’s hounds. There’s something altogether too dangerous and predatory in his stare. Jenkins is the one who breaks first, at which point Reynolds says, “You don’t draw me right.”

Jenkins tugs on the book, to no avail. “Right,” he snaps. “Because an old guttersnipe from Morley is perfectly qualified to criticize a bunch of sketches.”

The weird little half-smile spreads to the other side of Reynolds’s mouth, and Jenkins is really not thinking about what it would be like to kiss him because that would be the beautiful whipped frosting on the cake of complete and utter disaster that is his life at this moment.

…oh, who is he kidding. He’s absolutely thinking about what it would be like to kiss him. Fuck _everything_.

“About as qualified as a poor kid from Dunwall is to draw the stuff in the first place,” Reynolds says mildly. “’Sides. Point is, you clean me up too much. You and I both know I’m not near as handsome as you draw me in that little book a’ yours.”

Jenkins shrugs. “I draw what I see,” he says.

Reynolds’s laugh is rough and gravelly and _genuine_ , and something sharp twists in Jenkin’s chest. It’s a good feeling, and also a terrible one, and it’s entirely possible that he’s about to get himself stabbed in the face.

“You need to get your eyes checked,” Reynolds is saying, and before he loses his nerve Jenkins blurts, “So, I’m going to kiss you, and I’m giving you fair warning so you won’t reflexively shank me in self-defense or anything. Or offensively shank me, I guess. Or apply any sort of sharp object at all to my person, because I genuinely worry about that with you sometimes.”

Reynolds just rolls his eyes. “And to think I worried you’d broken that part of your brain that lets you run your mouth all the damn time,” he says, and before Jenkins can reply Reynolds is sliding a hand to the nape of his neck and pulling him in for a very, _very_ thorough kiss.

Jenkins most assuredly does not make the most embarrassing noise known to man, nor does he drop the sketchbook to cling to Reynolds like a limpet; doing either of those things would be mortifying, and Jenkins is far more calm and collected than that. He also doesn’t tongue the gap between Reynolds’s front teeth, or laugh breathlessly when Reynolds bites his lower lip in retaliation. He definitely doesn’t utter a low, incoherent moan when Reynolds gets a good handful of his ass and hitches him _up_ before walking them backward until Jenkins’s back hits the wall.

Because that would be undignified.

It turns out that Reynolds is really fucking good at kissing, and also he’s perfectly happy to just kiss Jenkins breathless instead of pushing for anything more. He’s obviously enjoying it too – the evidence is _right there_ , and it’s maybe driving Jenkins a little mad because it’s been, well, quite some time– but when Jenkins groans into his mouth and tries to grind against his stomach, Reynolds finally pulls away. He’s flushed and his hair is a mess and he looks…kind of stupidly happy, actually, and it’s weird but also a pretty good look on him.

“Time out,” Reynolds rasps. “Otherwise I’m not gonna stop, and I’ve got patrol in less than an hour.”

Jenkins thinks the combination of pure happiness and blind stupid lust might’ve done something unfortunate to his brain, because there’s no other explanation for what comes out of his mouth next: “Wow. I can all but _guarantee_ it’s not going to take us that long.”

The look Reynolds shoots him is equal parts fondness and irritated exasperation. “You, maybe.”

“What can I say?” Jenkins grins weakly. “I’m young. And have I mentioned it’s been a really long time? Because it’s been a _really long time._ ”

After all, while Daud didn’t exactly forbid them from having sex, he certainly made his feelings clear on the subject of trips to the Cat and the like. No one was entirely sure about the rules regarding liaisons with fellow Whalers, but no one really wanted to _ask_ either. Better to just keep quiet about it, or not engage at all.

Or, more to the point: Jenkins _really_ doesn’t need an hour. Fifteen minutes, maybe.

…if that.

But Reynolds just smirks, because he’s a bastard. “All the more reason for us to take our time then, yeah?” and Jenkins could _murder him_ for that if it weren’t for the underlying implications of the statement.

“Tch, fine,” he says. “Go restring your crossbow,” and when Reynolds raises an eyebrow at that he snorts and adds, “ _Not_ a euphemism. I mean it, Reynolds. Go do something before I jump you again.”

“Promises, promises,” Reynolds says. He ruffles Jenkins’s hair before Jenkins has a chance to duck away, and in a rush of air he’s gone.

It’s probably a good thing. Jenkins wasn’t kidding when he said he might try to jump him again.

He takes a moment to straighten his clothes and get his hair in order, and then he retrieves his sketchbook and the intact charcoal sticks. Settles himself in the corner and flips to the most recent drawing he was working on, the one of Reynolds smoking in the window. That particular drawing is almost finished, and he has a few blank pages left before he needs to find a new sketchbook.

He thinks about the expression on Reynolds’s face right before his transversal, the flush in his cheeks when they’d finally stopped kissing. Jenkins grins. 

He’s got a few pages left.

Might as well make them count.


	3. ghosts come to play

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Iteration the Third: Smith/Reynolds
> 
> This is set a few years after '[on the care and feeding of abbey wolfhounds](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1183161)'. It's not required reading by any means, but it will certainly help with context.

The Fugue Feast is always a weird time for them.

Word from the older Whalers is, Daud used to ban Fugue celebrations. Even banned its mention. Given Daud’s -- usually -- rational hatred for everything associated with the Abbey, Reynolds supposes this makes a strange sort of sense on a philosophical level. It’s utterly stupid on a practical one, which is doubtless why the ban isn’t enforced anymore; it’s a relic from the days when the company was much smaller and, presumably, easier to control. These days, Daud seems as like to look the other way when his people disappear on Fugue revels as not.

The bump in contracts they receive probably has something to do with it.

Since so many of their number quietly vanish over the Fugue, Reynolds has been picking up extra contracts. No reason _not_ to, really -- the Fugue loses most of its appeal when you’ve lived outside the law long enough, and besides, it’s common knowledge that Daud jacks the prices on Fugue contracts by as much as forty to fifty percent. Stick around to carry one out, and the boost in commission more than makes up for the long hours.

Daud may have a hate-on for everything associated with the Abbey, but he’s not averse to using them to further his own ends. Reynolds respects that.

Still, working so many contracts over such a short period of time always leaves him punch-drunk and a little strung out. The days and nights of the Fugue bleed together in an endless cacophony of riotous voices and loud music, the streets a thick haze of booze and sex and perfume, fireworks painting the sky overhead. Reynolds quickly loses track of who’s working and who isn’t, which is probably why, when his rooftop pathway home crosses that of Smith’s, nothing immediately strikes him as out of the ordinary. Smith is often found haunting the rooftops and alleys near their current base, seeming to prefer them to the confinement of the base itself. Nothing odd about it at all.

Then he realizes Smith is out of uniform. That’s not unusual among their company for this time of not-year, but it is unusual for Smith, who tends to treat masks and uniforms as a peculiar armor all their own and is rarely without even during his leisure time. Even more unusual: the haze of alcohol hanging in the air around him as Reynolds nears. Reynolds has known Smith for going on four years now, and doesn’t think he’s ever once seen him drunk.

The combination is unsettling.

“Where are you off to, then?” he calls. His unease deepens when Smith’s shoulders ratchet up, his body language tense and wary in a way it wasn’t a moment ago. 

Smith’s not easy to sneak up on, and Reynolds wasn’t trying all that hard to be quiet. Something clearly isn’t right.

“Out,” Smith says finally.

“Yeah?” The building they’re on is an older one, slate tiles of the first floor roof slippery beneath their feet, multi-story brick rising next to them. Reynolds leans against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. “Where to? What for?”

Smith shoots him a withering look. “It’s the Fugue,” he says, enunciating every word as if explaining to a particularly stupid child. “Take a wild guess.”

Reynolds blinks.

In general, he tries not to give much thought to the bedroom preferences of his fellow Whalers. They live in close enough quarters as it is. He knows most find relief somewhere, via illicit visits to places like the Golden Cat and her ilk, or with one another when the need arises. Occasionally they strike up understandings elsewhere, and even more occasionally a lasting bond or two forms among the company. Reynolds prefers the attention of women to men and places like the Cat leave him cold, but every so often he blows off a little steam with one of Lizzy’s gals. The woman’s sharp as a box of nails and he’s under no illusions that she wouldn’t try to kill him if the occasion warranted, but they’re good together in bed and besides, it’s fun. No real harm in it.

Smith, as far as Reynolds is aware, has never shown any sort of preference for _anyone_. Ever. Not for as long as they’ve known each other. This new wrinkle is, in its own way, even more unsettling than the fact that he’s drunk, and both of them together is…

He doesn’t like thinking about it.

“So you...what?” He’s speaking slowly, giving Smith every chance to correct him because there’s absolutely no possible way he’s interpreting this right. “Got yourself blind, stinking drunk with the express purpose of going out to find some stranger to fuck you? Because it’s the damn Fugue?”

He has to be wrong about this. Has to be. It’s Smith. Strange and quiet and painfully odd Smith, who never lets himself close to people, who can hardly bring himself to touch people, who awkwardly folds in on himself when you look at him wrong and stares through things and goes away in his head sometimes when situations turn sour. There’s no possible way he could--

Smith’s eyes narrow. His jaw is clenched, fingers curling inward to transform his hands into fists. His voice could strip paint. “That,” he says, “is none of your _fucking business_.”

Outsider’s teeth, Smith is kind of an asshole when he’s drunk. Reynolds hates every single thing about this conversation. Smith’s hostility and the cold pit yawning in his belly at the thought of someone touching Smith like this, the thought of someone touching Smith at all. That Smith is wasted, and he’s wondering why.

He’s got an ugly, sneaking suspicion of the answer, and he hates that most of all.

“Fuck you,” Reynolds snaps. Pushes off the wall until he’s almost but not quite in Smith’s space. “We’re teammates. That makes it my fucking business.”

Smith passes a shaking hand over his face. He looks worse up close, stubble along his jaw and exhaustion dark beneath his eyes, his brow damp with sweat. In Reynolds’ experience, the prospect of getting laid tends to cheer people up. Smith looks like a man about to face a firing squad.

His stomach hurts.

“I won’t compromise us,” Smith says. “I never have before, and I don’t plan to now.”

Fuck, that means he’s done this _before_. Reynolds’ knuckles ache with the need to hit something. “That ain’t the point!”

“Oh?” Smith fires back. “Then what is your point, exactly?”

 _Shit_. “That--it’s. I mean.” Reynolds flails desperately for an answer and finally settles on, “It’s just a bad idea is all. Especially when you’re drunk off your fuckin’ ass. You can barely stand up straight.”

He’s maybe exaggerating a bit, since Smith is, at most, just swaying a little, but Smith bristles like Reynolds up and punched him.

“I can stand just fine,” he says. “It is _none_ of your _business_.”

“Pretty sure you don’t need to be drunk to get someone to fuck you.”

“I’m pretty sure I didn’t ask you.”

The thing is, Smith’s right: it’s none of his fucking business. If Smith wants to get so drunk he can’t see straight and fuck a stranger or two over the Fugue, that’s on him. He’s obviously done it before, and the whole damn point of the Fugue is getting away with shit you wouldn’t normally, purging all the ugliness so you can start the year fresh. Smith wants to get stupid? Fine. Reynolds should leave him to it.

But--

But it’s sitting _wrong_. Smith’s hostility and apparent misery don’t click with Fugue revelry, and nor does the alcohol. It’s more like Smith had to get drunk to talk himself into it, which makes no fucking sense. Smith’s a nice-enough looking guy. If he was that hard up for company, he could probably sweet-talk his way into someone’s bed without too much effort. Shit, Reynolds knows folks who wouldn’t need much sweet-talking at all, just the promise of Smith’s big hands and focused attention and muscle, whatever equipment he keeps hidden beneath his uniform.

“Is it ‘cause they’re strangers?” he says. Thinking aloud, trying to puzzle it out because nothing quite fits right. “Liquid courage, something along those lines? Because I gotta tell you--”

Smith barks out a hoarse laugh. “No,” he says. “That’s not it at all.”

“Then what?” Reynolds growls. “I’m not trying to be an asshole, but something about all this just ain’t right. You look--” Desperate. Miserable. Heartbreaking. “--like someone facing his own death, not like someone about to dip his wick. Shit, Smith, most people like this sorta thing! They don’t get so fucking wasted they won’t even remember it in the morn--”

And just like that, the missing pieces slot into place. “Oh.”

Smith’s smile is small and sharp and bitter, barely even a smile at all. The cold pit in Reynolds’ stomach curdles.

“Why?” he says. Desperate to understand, the way he’s always desperate to understand the awful, hidden things lurking deep in Smith’s psyche. “If you hate it so much, why even do that to yourself?”

Smith’s voice is very quiet. “I don’t hate it.”

“The fuck you mean, you don’t hate it? You’re getting blackout drunk so you won’t remember someone fucking you!” His voice is rising, probably too much, but this is fucked up even beyond Smith’s usual brand of fucked up, and he needs to _understand_. “How in seven hells is that not--”

“Fuck you,” Smith snarls back. “Do you think I want it to be some stranger? Someone who doesn’t know me at all, someone I’ll never see again? Don’t you think I’d rather it be someone I knew, or...or _trusted_?”

Reynolds feels sick. “Smith...”

Smith’s eyes are blazing. The last time Reynolds saw this much despair in them, Smith wasn’t in his right mind and had no idea who Reynolds was. He’s not sure whether Smith being in his right mind now makes this whole situation better, or worse.

“ _No one ever touches me_ ,” Smith hisses. “Did you think I hadn’t noticed? That it hadn’t dawned on me over the years? I’m not blind, Reynolds. I noticed. Everyone I know is afraid of me, and there’s no one who’d...no one would _ever_ \--”

His voice breaks. Exhausted and sad and furious, all but spilling over with the things he’s probably kept locked away for years. Reynolds knows Smith would never breathe a word of this sober; he’s never even hinted at it until now. Always quiet, always separate. Never once betraying the crushing loneliness beneath his smooth, blank countenance.

That these are the lengths Smith goes to, that this is what he does just for someone to _touch_ him, that Reynolds has considered him a friend for almost four years and he never once suspected…

His chest feels like it’s cracking in two. “I’m not afraid of you.”

Smith closes his eyes and turns his face away. “Don’t.” Nothing but pure agony in his voice. “Please, don’t.”

“I haven’t been afraid of you for a long time. Years, even.” Reynolds takes a few steps towards him, takes a few more when Smith doesn’t back away. He reaches out and brushes the backs of his knuckles over Smith’s chest, something in him clenching tight and hot and startled when Smith’s breath goes shuddering out of him.

“You have no idea what you’re asking,” Smith says.

“Ain’t asking.” Reynolds flattens his hand. Smith’s heartbeat drums wildly beneath his palm, like a terrified bird throwing itself at a pane of glass. “Offering.”

The kiss isn’t unexpected but it surprises him all the same, mostly because of how angry and fierce and desperate it is. Like Smith’s trying to-- to scare him, somehow. Like he thinks Reynolds will turn tail just because he bites, because he’s powerful enough to slam Reynolds’ shoulders into the brick so hard the breath is punched right out of him. But Reynolds has known for years that Smith could beat the tar out of him if he chose, and he doubts that’s what Smith plans to do now.

Really, what’s upsetting is that Smith’s treating the kiss like a warning, as if he’s forgotten that Reynolds has already seen the worst of him and cares about him anyway, simply and without reservation.

“Shh,” Reynolds mutters. “Hey. You’re okay. We’re okay.” Tries to wrestle control of the kiss away, grunts when Smith’s response is to fist his hands in the front of Reynolds’ coat and shove him into the brick again. “ _Ow_ , fuck!”

Smith jerks back. He’s panting, his mouth reddened, his eyes bright and shiny-hard. His expression is an awful mix of triumph and deep sadness.

“See?” he rasps. “Told you.”

Reynolds touches his throbbing lower lip and grimaces when his fingers come back bloody. “Good for you,” he says. “You bite everyone who wants to have sex with you, or am I just special?”

Smith sneers. “You don’t want to--”

He makes a small, muffled sound of surprise when Reynolds curls a hand around the back of his neck and kisses him, _really_ kisses him, none of that too-much-teeth bullshit. Reynolds doesn’t mind a little roughness when the occasion warrants; in fact, he’s usually more than happy to mark up his partner a bit, and to walk away from the encounter with stinging scrapes and scratches up and down his back and dark bruises of his own. But this thing with Smith is different. The harder Smith is, the more angry and brittle and bruising, the more gentle Reynolds wants to be.

It’s easy enough to deflect when Smith tries to propel the kiss in a rougher direction. He keeps his own mouth soft, pulls back at the barest hint of teeth. Deepens the kiss in slow and careful increments until Smith is clinging to his shoulders and breathing fast and heavy against his mouth.

Have Smith’s other partners kissed him like this, Reynolds wonders? Have they ever dragged those choked, hungry noises from his throat, or memorized the obscene slide of his tongue? With faint, detached surprise he realizes he’s hard, then wonders why this surprises him. Smith may not have the equipment he prefers, but...it’s Smith. Groaning into his mouth and rocking against him in a ragged, unsteady rhythm, arching greedily into Reynolds’ touch, pulling back just enough to fumble at Reynolds’ belt with shaking hands.

Reynolds closes his own hands around Smith’s wrists, stilling him. “Not that,” he says. Still uncomfortably aware of the booze on Smith’s breath, the bleary shine in his eyes that might be lust or drunkenness or desperation, or some wretched combination of the three. He tightens his grip when Smith makes as if to keep going, and presses his mouth to the salt-damp skin of Smith’s temple. “Not yet.”

Smith’s raw, unhappy laugh rips a hole right through him.

“Of course,” Smith says hoarsely. He draws back, raking his fingers through his bristle-short hair. “Of course you’d change your mind. I don’t know why I even thought--”

“Oh, fuck you,” Reynolds snaps, stung. “Forgive me for wanting you to actually remember it if we fucked.”

Smith flinches. “Reynolds--”

“But if the alternative is you finding some asshole who don’t give a shit about you, then _fine_ , let’s fucking do this and get it over with already.”

He tackles his belt with a good deal more finesse than Smith and a lot more anger. He’d never given much thought to how things might go between them but he knows this isn’t it, Smith drunk and lonely and making do with whatever warm body’s nearby, him-- shit, he doesn’t even _know_ , his head’s entirely too snarled up to make sense of it. He knows he doesn’t want it to be like this but he’ll do it anyway, because it’s Smith, and because he’s pretty sure he’d cut the throat of any man or woman who touched the guy and--

Smith’s grip on his forearms is like iron. “Reynolds. Stop.”

“I’ve lied to a lot of fucking people in my life,” Reynolds says quietly. “A lot of fucking people.” He looks up, meeting Smith’s stricken gaze. “Never lied to you, though.”

Watching an entire empire collapse would probably be less painful than the slow crumbling of Smith’s expression.

“Aw, shit.” He hadn’t meant to make things _worse_. “Smith, don’t. Please don’t do that, don’t fucking--”

“I’m sorry,” Smith says wretchedly. Voice thick, words finally beginning to slur. It’s anyone’s guess as to what Smith is apologizing for -- doubting Reynolds’ sincerity, maybe, or perhaps this whole fucking situation. It’s entirely possible Smith himself isn’t even sure, like the only way he knows how to cope with the ugliness welling in him is to apologize for it. “I’m so sorry.”

It hurts, how drunk he is. It leaves Reynolds feeling tangled and helpless and desperately confused, sick with the knowledge that he kinda sorta maybe wants Smith anyway. He settles for pulling Smith close and wrapping his arms around the other man’s broad shoulders, resting his cheek against his brow. His chest aches at the way Smith all but sags into the touch.

“S’okay,” he says into Smith’s hair. “I still like you.”

He tightens his grip at the small, unhappy sound Smith muffles against his collarbone. Smith’s shoulders are shaking, his voice faint and watery. “You don’t like anyone.”

“Pfft. I like plenty’a people,” Reynolds says. “I’m just picky is all.” He gives Smith a little shake, gently thumbing away the wetness beneath Smith’s eyes when he eventually lifts his head. “C’mon. You’re bunking with me tonight.”

Smith frowns. “That cot’s barely big enough for you.”

“So?” Reynolds shrugs. “We’ll make do. Ain’t that what we always do?”

And finally, _finally_ , the left corner of Smith’s mouth twitches. Curls up, ever so slightly. “I suppose.”

*

For all his glib protestations to the contrary, the cot really isn’t big enough for two of them, but Reynolds doesn’t care. The makeshift dorm is mostly empty, about half their company snuck out to enjoy the Fugue revels and the other half carrying out missions. One or two of the cots already have occupants, but they’re swaddled tightly in their blankets to ward off the chill, their eyes closed. The slow, soft whistle of their breathing betrays sleep.

Not that Reynolds would particularly care if they were awake, but--

Smith’s looking deeply off-kilter, once again uncomfortable in his own skin. He doesn’t sleep much, and when he does he tends to just gather his blankets to bunk by himself in some dank, out-of-the-way room missing half its floorboards. Reynolds has never been sure if it’s a privacy thing or a self-punishment thing, but he’s loathe to ask. All he knows is it’s probably better that the room’s few occupants aren’t in a position to observe or ask questions right now.

Reynolds flips back the blankets, hauls off his boots, and quickly strips to his trousers. He expects that Smith’s doing the same, but when he glances up Smith’s standing there with his hands frozen on the buttons of his shirt, his pale eyes fixed on Reynolds. The quiet, helpless longing in his expression makes Reynolds’ breath catch.

He knows this isn’t about him, not really. It could be anyone in his place, Quinn or Montgomery or Tyros or Rulfio; any of them could be the ones to carefully nudge Smith’s hands out of the way and pop the buttons loose one by one, to slide the shirt free of his shoulders and add it to the growing pile of clothes on the floor. It isn’t about _him_.

Smith meets his gaze, searching and uncertain, and Reynolds impulsively bends down and catches his mouth. Kisses him until the tension bleeds out of his posture, until he’s swaying towards Reynolds like a flower bending to the sun.

Reynolds knows this isn’t about him, not really, but...maybe it is, a little.

Smith hangs back when Reynolds settles onto the cot, his hands dangling awkwardly at his sides. It’s not until Reynolds rolls his eyes and grumbles, “For fuck’s sake, Smith, get in here already,” that he finally moves, carefully fitting himself into the open space between Reynolds’s splayed legs, his head tucked just beneath Reynolds’s chin. Chest to chest, his breath hot on Reynolds’s shoulder. It’s not the most comfortable position by a long shot, since the only way for them both to fit is for Reynolds to half-sit, half-sprawl with a pillow wedged beneath his lower back and his shoulders braced against the splintered wooden walls, but no money in the world could convince him to move.

Smith squirms, trying, Reynolds presumes, to find a more comfortable position. He’s solid, intriguingly heavy. He shivers when the blanket slips and cool, musty air hits his bare skin, and shivers again when Reynolds tugs it back into place and slips his free hand beneath the mothbitten wool. Goosebumps trail in the wake of Reynolds’ fingers as he drags them up and down Smith’s back, thick muscles bunching and flexing as Smith inches himself closer. It’s nice, he thinks hazily, to touch someone like this. To make Smith feel good. He could maybe get used to it.

“We should probably talk,” Smith says. His voice is bleary with alcohol and exhaustion, and he pushes up into Reynolds’ hand with the sleepy, single-minded intensity of an oversized housecat. “About. All of this.”

The only part of Smith at close enough range to kiss is his temple, so Reynolds presses his lips there. “In the morning,” he says.

“But--”

“Nope. Morning.” Turns out Smith’s eyebrows are in reach, so he kisses those too. Kisses the wrinkle just between them, the one that means Smith’s worrying about something. “Promise. I ever lie to you?”

“Apparently not,” Smith grumbles.

“Damn right I never. Now go to sleep.”

He doesn’t hold out much hope for sleep of his own. His body’s more than a little confused, albeit in a pleasant way, and the lack of conversation gives his libido ample time to oh-so-helpfully explore all the various permutations of how the encounter on the roof might’ve gone down had he not stopped Smith when he did. Nice enough to think on, sure, but not conducive to actual slumber.

He assumes from the gradual slowing and deepening of Smith’s breathing that the other man _has_ managed to fall asleep, but when he shifts slightly to ease the pressure on his trapped erection, Smith stirs, his arm tightening around Reynolds’ waist.

“I never thanked you,” Smith says. He sounds far more awake than he should.

Reynolds cringes. “Outsider’s balls, man, don’t _thank_ me. I would’ve--”

 _Done it for anyone,_ is what he’d intended to say, but not even halfway through the phrase he recognizes it for the bald-faced lie it is. Because he wouldn’t do this for anyone, not even close. The list of people he would’ve pressed for details in the first place is a short one, and the list of people he’d offer to fuck in those circumstances is shorter still; the list of people he’d kiss and carefully undress and take to his bed with the express purpose of _not_ having sex with them is so short as to be nonexistent, and consists, essentially, of a single name.

They both know whose name it is.

“Makes it weird if you thank me,” Reynolds says, once the silence has stretched out long enough to get a bit awkward.

Smith huffs a sleepy laugh into his skin. “Is it okay to say I’m glad it was you, then?”

“Yeah,” Reynolds says. He rests his chin on the top of Smith’s head, swallows hard around the lump threatening to rise in his throat. Wills his voice steady. “Yeah, that one’s okay.”

“Then I’m glad it was you,” Smith says softly, and Reynolds has to just...breathe a minute.

“Me too.”


	4. chiaroscuro

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Iteration the fourth: Smith/Jenkins

Jenkins… _watches_ him.

Smith is no stranger to being watched. Sometimes, it’s with concern (Reynolds, Tyros, Piece). More often, it’s wariness (most everyone else). He’s grown used to the faint itch between his shoulder blades that signals scrutiny, the heavy weight of a cool and assessing stare. He’s not overly fond of either feeling, but -- like so many things in his life -- it’s something to which he’s grown accustomed.

Jenkins is different.

The lack of concern in Jenkins’ gaze does not surprise him. The lack of wariness does. Jenkins watches him with an open and honest curiosity, and Smith isn’t sure what to make of it.

There’s something else in Jenkins’ eyes, something smaller and quieter but no less genuine. Smith can’t place it, and he isn’t sure he _wants_ to. Concern and wariness, these he knows. Curiosity is less familiar, but he’ll grow accustomed to that too. But… _this_. The way Jenkins watches him, Smith feels himself solidify, as though Jenkins is somehow defining his edges. It sets his skin humming. He’s far too aware of the space he occupies.

It is not, he thinks bitterly, for Jenkins to decide what he is and is not. His edges are not for Jenkins to define. Smith has always been happiest in the shadows, and under the weight of Jenkins’ bright blue stare there is nowhere for him to hide.

The next time he feels Jenkins’ gaze alight on him, Smith steels himself and stares back.

Jenkins is hunched over his boots, industriously scraping away what looks like a day and a half’s worth of grime. He’s a studious worker but not a particularly enthusiastic one, and -- as is the case with most of the younger Whalers -- manual labor leaves him edgy and bored. He’s chatty when others are around, gregarious and cheerful, but when company is scarce he settles into something more subdued but no less alert. His gaze flickers in Smith’s direction and lingers there, flits away again the moment he risks getting caught. When Smith matches him stare for stare, it takes a moment for him to realize what’s happened.

The flush starts, oddly enough, in his ears. A bright red beacon, startling against his sandy hair. It blooms in his cheeks next, and there is nothing pretty about it, nothing delicate, nothing remotely approaching the pink, porcelain flowering so often described in novels. Jenkins’ blush _scorches_ , blazing down his neck until it disappears into the collar of his shirt, and Smith imagines it spreading outward from there, across his chest and down his stomach until it dissipates like a droplet of blood in water.

Jenkins swallows, his eyes widening. He catches his lower lip between his teeth and finally, after a long moment, guiltily drops his gaze to the boot and scraper in his hands.

The surrender -- Smith doesn’t know what else to call it -- is surprisingly unsatisfying. He watches the younger man a while longer. He tells himself he’s waiting for Jenkins to start staring again. 

The flush fades from Jenkins’ cheeks with agonizing slowness; his ears take longer still. He remains bent over his work the entire time, and eventually blinks out after a muttered farewell to the few others in the room. He never once glances Smith’s way.

It takes at least four hours for Smith to identify the strange, hot feeling that welled in his throat at Jenkins’ departure.

_Disappointment_.

*

He begins to watch Jenkins back.

*

Smith knows he’s being petty. He _knows_ this. He’d initially resented the way Jenkins’ gaze made it impossible to fade into the background, and later he’d resented the strange sense of loss he felt when Jenkins finally caught wise and Smith was free to disappear again. To start watching Jenkins the way the younger man watched him isn’t just petty: it’s _juvenile_. He should know better. 

To make matters worse, there’s a voyeuristic intimacy to watching Jenkins that Smith finds unsettling. He’s treating the man like a mark instead of a brother. He and Jenkins have never been close, but that in and of itself is not surprising. Smith can count the number of people he considers true intimates on the fingers of one hand and Jenkins, it seems, has the opposite problem entirely. He strikes up easy friendships at the slightest provocation. He is boundless energy, free and easy with physical expressions of his affection, too gregarious, too warm, too charming. He’s too much, too _everything_ , all but bubbling over with every single thing he’s thinking and feeling and--

Jenkins is an open book with illustrations on every other page, annotations scrawled in his margins, whereas Smith is a dense volume written in a language long since extinct. Obscure and impenetrable, his pages ragged with mildew. No wonder they’ve never been close.

But if Jenkins is an open book, Smith is slowly discovering that he has footnotes. He flouts rules according to some ethical code all his own, seemingly without shame and definitely without explanation, and accepts the resulting punishments without a word of complaint. He is always in motion; even when he appears to be sitting quietly, he’s still moving. Sketching away in the little notebook he carries, toying with a loose button, bouncing his leg. Smith feels exhausted just watching him, but Jenkins never seems to tire. He always seems to be at his happiest when he’s surrounded by others.

Smith learns that Jenkins’ hair always starts the day trim and neat, and ends up a wreck before nightfall; he has a terrible habit of running his hands through it when frustrated. Smith learns that Jenkins’ hands are a fascinating topic all their own, a contradiction of bitten nails and graceful fingers, perpetually stained with blots of ink and charcoal dust. Jenkins smiles often and laughs frequently, and his laughs are as varied as the weather. Although he’s short and not particularly muscled, he occupies space like no one Smith’s ever seen. It’s as if the force of his personality compensates for whatever he lacks in bulk. 

Perhaps, Smith grudgingly admits to himself, he’s been a bit unfair. Jenkins wears so much of himself on the surface that it’s easy to forget there’s something beneath. And what’s beneath is--

Here, Smith’s thoughts shy away again. He’s learned other things about Jenkins too, things he suspects Jenkins would rather he didn’t know. The way Jenkins’ gaze sometimes follows other men, the way he quietly traces their forms. Jenkins doesn’t speak openly about his preferences, but he doesn’t need to: it’s all there in his eyes. The resigned, barely-concealed longing.

No one else seems to notice. Then again, why would they? No one has reason to watch Jenkins the way he does. 

Which invites the question: why is _he_ watching Jenkins this way? He knows how it started, of course. But why it continues, well. That’s a different issue entirely.

Sometimes, before he pulls his mask on and settles into himself, before he becomes one of Daud’s knives in the dark, he glances in Jenkins’ direction. Jenkins looks back with warm, bright eyes, and he _smiles_ , and sometimes Smith smiles back.

For now, it’s enough.

*

Evening. The base is quiet, the clamor of daytime slowly winding down as the sun marches its slow decline across the horizon. Those with nighttime missions are given their updated briefings and summarily dispatched. The rest of them settle into afterhours routines that are now as worn and comfortable as old leather. 

For Smith, the motions of evening are as rote as those of the day. He watches the end of a training session with Rulfio, and offers one or two mild suggestions to the exhausted young men and women straggling from the combat room. He reviews the briefing Rinaldo passed along for his mission tomorrow, which should prove simple and relatively free of violence. He visits the mess and accepts the cracked mug of coffee Tyros presses into his hands and, after the coffee is finished, a ceramic bowl containing a hunk of bread and whatever stew had been simmering all day. He checks his weapons, and his gear; he finds a missing button on his uniform and hunts down a new one to replace it. He feeds the hounds. He reads. He mends the button.

And through it all, he watches Jenkins.

Not always. The younger man has his own evening routines and their paths cross but briefly, but his awareness of Jenkins’ presence is a steady electric hum just beneath his skin, insistent and unchanging. 

Jenkins laughing, raking sweat-soaked hair out of his eyes after his training session before he offers a hand to help his downed opponent to her feet. His gaze cuts to Smith in the doorway before quickly flitting away again. And later, Jenkins sprawled at a rickety table in the corner of the mess, surrounded by the raucous cluster of his little cohort and grinning as he sops up the last of his stew with his bread. When he sees Smith, his grin becomes softer and less toothy, altogether more dangerous. Smith meets his eyes over the rim of his mug and watches the flush rise, pinking his ears and his cheeks, and it’s only when Jenkins finally ducks his head that Smith finishes his coffee and goes in search of food.

He can feel Jenkins’ gaze on him as he sews his missing button. Whenever he glances up, Jenkins is conspicuously looking elsewhere, and Smith is startled to find himself biting back a smile. This is not how things between them generally go.

The sun has long since set when Jenkins abruptly excuses himself from the dorms. They all do this, in one way or another. Carve out a stolen moment someplace quiet and separate, where they can indulge, even if for a few minutes, in the luxury of being alone. Some use it as an opportunity to treat themselves to a cigar or a stolen bottle of good whisky; some, like Smith, prefer to use it as a time of reflection or quiet prayer. 

Jenkins, Smith knows, likes the quality of the light cast by the burning blue-white whale lamps that crackle into life around this time. He will head for the roof, where he’ll sketch in his little black notebook for an indeterminate amount of time before eventually coming back down, and when he returns he’ll have charcoal dust in the ridges of his fingertips and smudges on his cheeks. He never seems to notice, and it makes Smith’s fingers itch.

Smith glances up from his work to the cot where Jenkins was sitting just moments before. Jenkins’ notebook is still there, set carefully amidst the crumpled blankets. A handful of charcoal sticks lie scattered over the top of his footlocker where he’d left them.

Smith frowns. He scrolls through the last several minutes in his mind, trying to pinpoint what, if anything, triggered Jenkins’ now-unsettling departure. All he comes up with is the mismatched dance of their mutual regard, and the single burning moment when their eyes met before Jenkins looked away and Smith looked down and Jenkins had--

\--excused himself. 

Ah.

The button, Smith decides, is as secure as it’s going to get. He stows his needle and sets the project aside. He isn’t certain that Jenkins went to the roof, but it’s as likely a spot as any. He’d told Tyros once that he liked the view from that high, that looking out over the messy sprawl of Dunwall made him feel exhilarated and alive in a way its streets didn’t. If Jenkins wants to clear his head, Smith suspects that’s where he’ll go.

He’s right.

It’s a chilly night, as it often is in Wind. The moon is a sliver made hazy by clouds, and the wind coming off the river has an edge that promises frost. The air smells faintly of salt. Neither of them are dressed for being outside at this time of year -- shirtsleeves and vests, no gloves or hoods for either of them -- and Smith feels his frown deepen at the way Jenkins wraps his arms around himself to ward off the chill.

Jenkins, likely alerted to his arrival by the telltale hum of an impending transversal, doesn’t startle when Smith appears on the tiles a short distance away. He is not, however, quite quick enough to hide his surprise at the intruder’s identity. Bewilderment and something that looks suspiciously like hope rise in his expression before they are swiftly tamped down again.

“Smith?” he says. “What’re you--” 

“You’ve been watching me,” Smith says. It wasn’t what he intended to say, and now the words hang in the air between them, inevitable as a bullet.

Jenkins flinches. “Yeah, uh. You noticed that.” A pained wince of a smile, shredding itself into tatters from the moment it appears. “What am I talking about, of course you noticed. I...I’m sorry. I won’t do it again. I mean, I’ll try not to do it again, I won’t--”

He sighs and runs a bare hand through hair that’s already well on its way to being a mess; even with the street lights, it’s too dim for Smith to see if he has charcoal dust on his fingers. It’s not too dim to see the way his hands tremble. The second time he meets Smith’s gaze, he does it without flinching.

“I’m sorry,” he says again. Steadier, this time. Serious in a way that’s always surprising for how rare and _genuine_ it is. “I’ll stop.”

Smith opens his mouth, not entirely sure what he’s going to say until the words suddenly take shape. “You don’t need to apologize.”

It’s the last thing he expected himself to say, and he’s even more shocked to discover he means it.

Jenkins blinks. “I don’t?”

“No.”

“Oh.” The silence that follows is contemplative at first, then slowly grows more crowded as a multitude of expressions flash over Jenkins’ expressive face one after the next, too quickly for Smith to follow. It’s into a thicker and far more uncomfortable silence that Jenkins finally says, “... _why_?”

“I’ve been…” Smith’s mouth feels like cotton. “I’ve been watching you as well.”

Jenkins _laughs_. Smith stiffens before he realizes the laughter is not directed at him. It’s small and surprised, buoyant with disbelief.

“That doesn’t even remotely answer my question,” Jenkins says. “I mean, now I have fifty _new_ questions, and all of them still begin with, ‘why?’ Why, Smith? Why in all the mysteries of the vast ocean would _you_ be watching _me_?”

There is nothing remotely accusatory in the words, but Smith is startled regardless. Is it possible Jenkins honestly has no idea how this works? Why wouldn’t Smith watch him? It may have started as simple turnabout, but it’s long moved beyond that. Has Jenkins really failed to notice the ways in which their interactions have changed these last few months? The quiet rising of Smith’s esteem? His _respect_?

Impossible. Jenkins is a lot of things, but stupid isn’t one of them. He _must_ have noticed.

“You first, Smith retorts, and wants to snatch the words back the moment they leave his mouth. How utterly childish of him.

The younger man just blinks, looking puzzled. “Why wouldn’t I?” he says. “Look at you, Smith. You’re--” His hands move in a sequence of vague gestures, which Smith interprets as _large_ and _tall_ and something he can’t quite parse but seems complimentary. “--just… _look_ at you.”

“I’m hardly unique in that aspect,” Smith says, taken aback. Is that really all it is? “There are plenty of others who--”

“They’re not you,” Jenkins says bluntly. He takes a step back, folding his arms over his narrow chest once again. The breeze stirs his hair. “Besides, it’s not just what you look like. It’s what you _are_. How you are. As a person.”

He lapses into another uncharacteristic silence. When he finally does speak again, his voice is low and hoarse. He’s not looking at Smith anymore. 

“I’ve seen the way you are with people you trust,” he says. “The ones you care about, the ones you _like_. It’s not that you become a different person, because you don’t. It’s more like...like an unfurling, I suppose. You’re always wrapped up so tightly that nothing ever gets in or out, but every once in a while, with people you care about, you unfold, just a little. I like seeing that part of you, even though it’s not...”

He hesitates, his throat working. There is something terribly complicated happening in his expression, and not for the first time Smith wishes desperately that he was better at _people_ , that negotiating the intricate tangle of affection and physical desire and companionship didn’t feel like trying to speak a language he doesn't understand. There’s something at work here, something Smith can’t comprehend but wishes he could, something serious enough that Jenkins is slowly but surely closing in on himself, the light in him dimming right before Smith’s eyes. 

“Even though it’s not what?” Smith asks.

Jenkins sighs. “I like seeing that part of you even though it’s not meant for me,” he says softly. “That’s why you were never supposed to find out. Because if you didn’t know, then it was okay for me to think about you, or...or _us_. I could pretend that you--” 

He breaks off, grimacing. “Can we please not talk about this anymore? I know you don’t really think about people that way, and I know you _especially_ don’t think about me that way, and I feel stupid enough now as it is. I’ll leave you be, I promise.”

Smith has never felt slower or more useless than he does in that moment, as he painstakingly attempts to fit Jenkins’ words and behavior and history together into a something resembling a coherent whole. “You watched me because you like seeing me...unfold?”

“ _Ugh_.” Jenkins groans, burying his face in his hands. “When you say it like that, it sounds even worse. Yes, Smith, I like seeing you _unfold_ , all right? I find you aesthetically pleasing in a way you probably don’t want me to describe, and I like seeing you open up with your friends, and I like thinking about what it would be like if you thought about me the way I thought about you, and I _get_ it, it’s _pathetic_ , I’m _sorry_.”

It’s astonishing, Smith thinks blankly, how quickly Jenkins went from “quiet and humiliated despair” to “utterly furious despair.” He’s all but shouting by the end of the speech, his eyes bright and hard. His anger clearly isn’t directed at Smith, but rather at himself: fury over letting Smith see something he wanted to keep hidden, the seeming futility of his desires, the fact that he has them anyway. The air around him is already shimmering with his impending transversal, and into the oncoming void Smith blurts, “I _like_ the way you look at me.”

The air abruptly stills. Jenkins’ expression is raw as an open wound, ragged with betrayal. “You’re making _fun_ of me?” His voice breaks. “Really?”

Smith is aghast. “No! No, I--”

“I said I was sorry.”

“Don’t,” Smith says. He takes a step forward. “Don’t be sorry. I watched you too, remember? I like watching you. You’re--” 

He pauses, suddenly afraid he’s going to say the wrong thing but helpless to keep the words from spilling out regardless. “You’re vibrant. You’re _alive_. You fill up every space you’re in, and when you’re looking at me, I feel…”

Jenkins is watching him with wide eyes, and Smith bites the insides of his cheeks so hard he tastes blood, frustrated with his inability to articulate the feeling of solidity that accompanies Jenkins’ quiet, intent gaze. The way he feels himself emerging from the background like a moth struggling free of its cocoon. It felt intrusive at first, how Jenkins gave him a shape whether he wanted one or not; now, he finds comfort in those edges, the clear delineation of _Smith_ and _not-Smith_.

Finally, helplessly, he says, “You make me feel real.” 

Jenkins’ voice is quiet. “You are real.” 

“Perhaps,” Smith says. He risks a smile, and feels it firm when Jenkins offers a hesitant smile in return. “I know what I’m _not_ , most days. But sometimes it’s nice to know what I am.”

“Yeah?” Traces of Jenkins’ usual good humor are slowly beginning to migrate their way back. “And what’s that?”

Outsider’s eyes, but he hopes he’s right about this. “Loved.”

Jenkins sucks in a small, startled breath. He looks almost pained, and he appears to be searching Smith’s expression for any sign of mockery or deceit. When he doesn’t find it, the desperation on his face blooms into a wild hope so bright that it _burns_.

“You don’t mind?”

“No.”

“It’s okay that I--”

“ _Yes_.”

“Oh,” Jenkins breathes. “That’s...wow. I never...I mean--” He laughs shakily. His hands, always more eloquent than the rest of him, twist around each other, restless with the fidgety energy Jenkins always seems to have trouble containing. “Outsider’s balls, Smith, this is the last thing I ever thought you’d say to me. I’m, uh. Maybe panicking a little.”

Smith looks at him. His nervous hands. His birds-nest hair, pale in the wispy moonlight. The expanse of empty air that still separates them. He says, “A little?”

Jenkins’ laugh solidifies ever so slightly. “Okay, all right, fine. I’m maybe panicking a lot. Happy?”

“I would prefer that you weren’t panicking at all,” Smith says. 

Jenkins gulps as Smith closes the distance between them, his eyes widening when Smith reaches out and carefully takes one of his hands.

Charcoal dust on his fingers. Of course. Smith smiles and lifts Jenkins’ hand, presses a careful kiss into the hollow of his palm. Jenkins utters a small, startled, “... _oh_ ,” and after that it only makes sense for Smith to catch his other hand and kiss the palm of that one too. The skin beneath his lips is warm despite the chill.

“Too late,” Jenkins says faintly. “About the panicking, I mean.” His breath hitches when Smith kisses the soft undersides of his wrists next, first one, then the other. “Smith. Wait. You don’t...you don’t have to--”

There’s an edge to his voice that wasn’t there a moment ago. “What’s wrong?” Smith asks.

“You don’t have to do things just because you think I want them,” Jenkins says. He squeezes Smith’s hands, his grip tight and a little panicky and desperately earnest. “It doesn’t have to be anything more than this. I would be happy with that, I really would.”

His burning sincerity takes Smith’s breath away. “I know you would,” Smith says softly. “Would you like to know what I’d be happy with?”

Jenkins gulps. His eyes are very wide, his expression painfully open. “Okay?”

He doesn’t close his eyes until Smith has released his hands and cupped his jaw instead, and even then they only flutter shut at the last possible second. As if Jenkins, even now, still wanted to separate him from the darkness: _Smith_ and _not-Smith_ , his lines as clear and bold as the charcoal drawings in Jenkins’ little sketchbook.

And then Smith is kissing him, and the only line that matters is the sweetly yielding curve of Jenkins’ mouth. The sharp angle of his jaw, defined solely by the press of Smith’s fingertips. Jenkins’ lips are soft and his breath shudders against Smith’s mouth, and his small sound of contentment makes Smith’s chest ache.

By the time he pulls back, Jenkins’ hands have come to rest on his waist. He’ll leave charcoal smudges, Smith thinks, and finds the thought absurdly pleasing. He kisses the corner of Jenkins’ mouth, his neat little mustache, the soft skin between his eyebrows, and finally touches their foreheads together. Jenkins’ smile could rival the sun.

“It can be this also,” Smith says quietly. Brushes his thumb over Jenkins’ cheek, his own smile smaller but no less heartfelt. “That would make me happy.”

“Me too,” Jenkins rasps, his eyes suspiciously bright. He pushes up to catch Smith’s mouth again, sweet and unhurried, asking for nothing more than what’s being offered, and Smith kisses him back. Can’t help but kiss him back. Something in him is blooming, his edges expanding until both of them are encompassed, and he thinks, _there is room enough for two_.


End file.
